Mr. STOKES, if lie has not the fire of a
poet, has both the flame and the smoke. His Song of Albion is a patriotic effusion of much animation, if not of much power. A botanical critic would class it as Pindaricum gigas. The Greek poet was more sublime, and perhaps more obscure: the English one is longer, and though equally inspired, not exactly at the same spring. The sentiments are as free as air ; and so is the metre. The politics are of the most libk.,ral kind; and the spirit our poet breathes is one of the purest benevolence to his friends, and of utter damnation to those on the other side of the question,—which is hearty and straight- forward. He seems to have anticipated the rejection of " the Bill," and foretels the destruction of the Lords : so that prophecy —one of the poetical gifts—cannot be denied to him.
The following spirited denunciation, we apprehend, is a favourite of the author's : it is meant, no doubt, as an expostulation with the fatal Forty-one. There is, at least, one good line in it, and we have arrayed it in italics.
" False sons of Ocean ! bastards such as ye Are cankers in the heart of liberty ;
Wolves in sheep's clothing, named in Sacred Writ,
That rob, yet would appear most innocent; Smooth, smiling Judases benevolent, With kiss on lip, but in the heart a sting; Birds with a vulture's claw, though turtle's wing; With watch. dog's hark, but the hyena's tooth ; All treachery, and yet all-seeming truth.
Your names the Lyric Muse may hardly tell, Uncouth and vile, and most unfit for song; But 'tis not needed—ye are known full well, In Shame's black chronicle an odious throng.
Who are they ? ask thyself, thou haughty lord !
Who hast monopolized the heritage Of thousands—with the soil of earth dost hoard Men's civil rights ; and as from age to age Thou bast enjoyed the same, cloth claim to hold Alike for ever. Ask thyself, thou bold Contemner of thy fellows, low-born knave !
That hast crept in upon men's rights by stealth,
Has/ ?nide thy fellow, while he slept, a slave ;
Hast wasled out conscience with a flood of wealth, And set in Freedom's fane thy banking-seat !
Who are they ?—ask Report, she will repeat Thy question with a laugh. Dependence ask, And she will answer through her iron mask, In accents hollow and of meaning vague,— A mumbled lie, but a truth-telling groan."
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